Little suit at first shall win With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear; We the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there; Other whiles we'll gather flowers, Lying dallying on the grass; And thus our delightful hours Full of waking dreams shall pass. When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee, Old acquaintance then should grow as strange as strange might be: Twenty rivals thou shouldst find Breaking all their hearts for me, And more forward than to thee. Thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy; But alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly. Those sweet hours which we had pass'd, Call'd to mind, thy heart would burn; And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast, They would make thee straight return. T. Campion. SILLY boy, 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly; Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly. Shortly will thou mourn when all thy pleasures are bereaved; Little knows he how to love that never was deceived. This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet unstained; All is artless now you speak, not one word yet is feigned; All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed; But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid. Thy well-order'd locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected; And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected. Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy, And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly. Yet be just and constant still! Love may beget a wonder, Not unlike a summer's frost, or winter's fatal thunder. He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying, Lives, of all that ever breath'd, most worthy the envying. T. Campion. LXXXIX LOVE guards the roses of thy lips Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine. Love works thy heart within his fire, And of my plaints doth make a game. Love, let me cull her choicest flowers; But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her 1 v.l. 'their pretty shine.' CARDS AND KISSES XC A CONSPIRACY SWEET Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, Subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry : Out of thy golden quiver Take thou thy strongest arrow That will through bone and marrow, And me and thee of grief and fear deliver : But come behind, for if she look upon thee, XCI CARDS AND KISSES CUPID and my Campaspe play'd The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how); O Love! has she done this for thee? John Lyly. 87 XCII O CUPID! monarch over kings, It is all one in Venus' wanton school, Who highest sits, the wise man or the fool. Have far more knowledge To read a woman over Than a neat prating lover: Nay, 'tis confest That fools please women best. John Lyly. XCIII THE KISS O, that joy so soon should waste! Or so sweet a bliss As a kiss Might not for ever last! So sugar'd, so melting, so soft, so delicious, When the morn herself discloses, Is not so precious. 3 |